More they said about Andy Green—­he and Take-Notice, with Irish mostly silent and with the girl extremely indignant at times and at others slightly incredulous, but always eager to hear more.  More they said, not with malice, perhaps, for they liked Andy Green, but with the spirit of reminiscence strong upon them.  Many things that he had said and done they recalled and laughed over—­but the girl did not laugh.  At sundown, when they rode away, she scribbled a hasty note, put it in an envelope and entrusted it to Irish for immediate delivery to the absent and erring one.  Then they rode home, promising each other that they would sure devil Andy to death when they saw him, and wishing that they had ridden long ago to the cabin of Take-Notice.  It was not pleasant to know that Andy Green had again fooled them completely.

None at the ranch had seen Andy, and they speculated much upon the nature of the game he was playing.  Happy Jack wanted to bet that Andy really had broken his leg—­but that was because he had a present grievance against Irish and hated to agree with anything he said.  But when they went to bed, the Happy Family had settled unanimously upon the theory that Andy had ridden to Dry Lake, and would come loping serenely down the trail next day.

Irish did not know what time it was when he found himself sitting up in bed listening, but he discovered Pink getting quietly into his clothes.  Irish hesitated a moment, and then felt under his pillow for his own garments—­long habit had made him put them there—­and began to dress.  “I guess I’ll go along with yuh,” he whispered.

“Yuh can if yuh want to,” Pink answered ungraciously.  “But yuh needn’t raise the long howl if—­”

“Hold on, boys; my ante’s on the table,” came guardedly from Weary’s bunk, and there was a soft, shuffling sound as of moving blankets; the subdued scrape of boots pulled from under bunks, and the quiet searching for hats and gloves.  There was a clank of spur-chains, the faint squeal of a hinge gone rusty, a creak of a loose board, and then the three stood together outside under the star-sprinkle and avoided looking at one another.  Without a word they went down the deep-worn path to the big gate, swung it open and headed for the corral where slept their horses.

“If them bone-heads don’t wake up, nobody’ll be any the wiser—­and it’s a lovely night for a ramble,” murmured Weary, consoling himself.

“Well, I couldn’t sleep,” Irish confessed, half defiantly.  “I expect it’s just a big josh, but—­it won’t do any hurt to make sure.”

“Yuh all think Andy Green lives to tell lies,” snapped Pink, throwing the saddle on his horse with a grunt at the weight of it.  The horse flinched away from its impact, and Pink swore at it viciously.  “Yuh might uh gone down and made sure, anyhow,” he criticised.

“Well, I was going to; but Jack said—­” Irish stooped to pick up the latigo and did not finish.  “But I can’t get over the way his head dropped down on his arms, when we were riding out uh sight.  As if—­oh, hell!  If it was a josh, I’ll just about beat the head off him for spoiling my sleep this way.  Get your foot off that rein, yuh damned, clumsy bench!” This last to his horse.